by Jim Trotter
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
“I Have to Be Better Than Me”
Success and Shame: One and the Same
“There Was Nothing Junior About His Game”
Ferdinand the Linebacker
Dream Turned Nightmare
“I’ve Got to Get Better”
The Turnaround
Super Fold
Cheating . . . in Business and Matrimony
Photos
The Anti-Leaf
“My Head Is on Fire!”
The Trade
Hello, South Beach
The Graduation
“This Is Not Who I Want to Be”
High Point, Low Moment
“I Knew He Was Going to Have a Hard Time with Life After Football”
“9-1-1 Emergency”
Gone but Not Forgotten
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Notes
Index
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Jim Trotter
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-544-23617-2
Cover design by Brian Moore
Cover photographs © Mark A. Brown/Icon SMI/Corbis
eISBN 978-0-544-23714-8
v1.1015
To my mother—My biggest cheerleader.
To my family—Thanks for your patience.
To the Seau children—If greatness is making those around you better, your father achieved greatness many times over in his 43 years.
To Junior—Miss you, bud-deee.
Introduction
Instantly, the room fell silent.
The 1999 NFL season had been over for roughly a month when members of the San Diego Chargers’ coaching and personnel staffs met in a second-floor office at their training facility.
They were there to discuss the roster, and one by one, they reviewed each player, identifying his strengths and weaknesses and overall value to the team. Eventually they got to Junior Seau, their perennial Pro Bowl linebacker who had just finished his 10th season.
The conversation didn’t last long, but near the end of it, almost in passing, veteran linebackers coach Jim Vechiarella said: “It’s not going to end well for this guy.”
Everyone was stunned. It was as if a rock had crashed through the window. They looked around at each other as if to say, Did I just hear what I think I heard?
Junior was the local boy who made good—a gifted athlete at Oceanside High School and the University of Southern California who went on to be drafted fifth overall by the Chargers in 1990. He was beloved in the community and revered by his teammates. He owned a popular restaurant and had some of San Diego’s most prominent power brokers on speed dial.
Not going to end well? Junior Seau?
“It was chilling,” said Billy Devaney, the team’s director of player personnel at the time. “Vech had been around. He was kind of a crusty old guy. But he wasn’t saying it to be negative. It was more out of concern.”
“He was worried about Junior and life after football,” said former head coach Mike Riley. “Looking back . . .”
Riley paused before continuing: “For a guy like Junior, football is more than an occupation. It’s life.”
And in this case, death.
On May 2, 2012, only two and a half years after concluding a 20-season NFL career that included 12 Pro Bowl berths, eight All-Pro selections, and two Super Bowl appearances, Junior retreated to a second-floor bedroom in his beachfront home in Oceanside, California, leaned back on a bed, and put a .357-caliber revolver over his heart. Then he pulled the trigger.
The answer to why the 43-year-old killed himself is as complex as the question is simple. There were addictions or dependency to alcohol, prescription meds, gambling, and women. There was brain damage from two decades of violent collisions in the National Football League. There was the suffocating pressure of having to be a human ATM for a community-sized family, not to mention the shame of feeling he had failed because he was headed for bankruptcy despite having left the game with a financial portfolio that didn’t require him to work in retirement unless he chose to do so.
Few people knew the severity of his pain or his problems because he never pulled back the curtains to let anyone see it. Instead, he hid everything behind a smile so bright it could light up a stadium. He was a master of manipulation and compartmentalization, often telling people what he thought they wanted to hear—what would make them happy and create the least amount of drama—rather than what he was really thinking or feeling.
He did it with the women in his life, making each one feel as if she was the only one who mattered by telling her that he loved her; in reality, he was saying the same thing to at least one other woman at the same time. He did it with family members, telling them he was unaware that his foundation director and personal assistant had blocked their attempts to reach him or get money from him when, in reality, he was the one telling her not to give it to them. He did it with his trainers and teammates, hiding injuries and seeking physical treatment in private to perpetuate the image of himself as being more myth than man. And he did it with friends, telling them everything was great when, in reality, his life was spinning out of control.
Presenting an image of happiness and control was as important to him as presenting an image of strength. While growing up, he and his five siblings were told regularly by their mother to go into the world and “make happy,” which was what he tried to do. His smile was as disarming as his sculpted six-foot-three, 255-pound physique was intimidating. He loved to laugh and sing, even though his voice was often off-key. His playfulness sometimes resulted in comments or jokes that were politically incorrect, but he could get away with it because everyone knew there wasn’t a malicious bone on his skeleton. Even Nick Saban and Bill Belichick, coaches whose public personas are as dour as Junior’s was jovial, accepted his verbal jabs because they knew the words came from a good place.
The reality, however, is that we don’t really know our athletic heroes, as much as we think otherwise. We see only the facade, the parts that they want us to see. This isn’t to say Junior wasn’t a good man. He was. He gave to those around him without ever asking for anything but a smile in return. Bringing joy to someone else brought pleasure to him. He called everyone Buddy, though in his own unique way. It wasn’t BUD-DY, two quick syllables, but BUD-DEEEE, with him hanging on to the DEEEE as if it were a note in a song.
Countless people would’ve been there in a heartbeat if they had known he needed help, but he viewed asking for help as a form of weakness. The few who did reach out to him were pushed away or kept at a distance. On those occasions when he felt he had bottomed out, he told people close to him that he was unhappy with himself and wanted to change. But those moments of clarity were fleeting and quickly replaced with more women, more alcohol, and more trips to casinos.
“The two things that he told me that really gave him peace were his children and that surf, to be able to go out there and surf those waves,” said Rodney Harrison, a teammate in San Diego and New England. “They gave him that peace for that moment.”
His longboard was so big, it could have been mistaken for a kayak, and on most days in the off-season he made a point of walking across the narrow road in front of his home, down the 12 concrete st
airs to the shore, then through the sand and into the cold yet comforting Pacific—the same Pacific on which he had body-surfed as a kid.
The weekend after his death some 200 surfers made that same trek and paddled offshore. New Orleans Saints quarterback Drew Brees was among them, despite he and Junior playing together for only two seasons in San Diego. “He was more than just a great football player,” Brees said. “He was the heartbeat of the team and the city for a long time. Everywhere you went, he was like a legend. He was like family to everybody. I’ve never played with someone whom the guys on the team respected more.”
That respect extended beyond the locker room. In December 2010, Mark Davis, the freckle-faced, gravel-voiced son of legendary Raiders owner Al Davis, chose to stay overnight in San Diego after a 28–13 defeat of the Chargers before driving to Palm Springs for a brief getaway. He was hungry and wanted to watch that night’s NFL game between the Ravens and Steelers, so he went to Seau’s The Restaurant.
After passing through the towering glass double doors at the entrance, he was stunned to see the greatest defensive player in Chargers history standing at the front desk. Davis had never formally met Junior, but he definitely was familiar with him. “I’ve hated you for all my life, but it’s out of respect,” he said after they exchanged handshakes and small talk. “It’s because you kicked our ass so many times.”
Junior flashed the broad, welcoming smile for which he was known. Instantly, he and Davis were friends. They retreated upstairs to his private office, where they talked for hours about life and loves, but very little about football.
“I learned that he’s such a soft, generous, life-loving person,” Davis said. “You talk about alter ego, Clark Kent. I mean, he’s in his flip-flops and shorts, just hanging out. It was a great thing. We [met up] again the following year when we played down there. We started a little relationship. He was just arms wide open. I valued his friendship because he was very special. When he did what he did, it was a shock and it really hurt me.”
“I was in the car in Atlanta, and I’m listening to the news, and they’re reporting Junior’s death,” said Devaney. “I’m thinking, ‘There’s no way. Not this guy. This guy doesn’t die. He’s Junior Seau.’”
That’s what he wanted everyone to believe. Hopefully, this book will help us understand why that wasn’t the case—and remind those who are hurting that asking for help is a sign of strength and not weakness.
1
“I Have to Be Better Than Me”
IT’S EARLY MARCH, and the sun is just beginning to rise over Oceanside, California, a coastal town 45 minutes north of San Diego. Dew is on the grass and a chill is in the air when Sai Niu arrives at the school bus stop at six o’clock. His body is awake only in the sense that his eyes are open.
As he prepares to board the bus, he notices someone running sprints on an adjacent field. He squints through the dim light and walks around the back of the bus to get a closer look. Soon, he realizes it’s Junior—or Bug, as he is known to family and close friends.
The classmates exchange handshakes and small talk. They’re entering the spring of their junior year at Oceanside High, but already their minds are thinking ahead to the fall and winter, when they will lead the Pirates’ varsity football and basketball teams for the second straight year. Junior invites Niu to join him for an early-morning workout later in the week. When the running back/point guard arrives two days later at five o’clock, Junior is waiting for him.
They stretch briefly, then begin running . . . and running . . . and running. Niu thinks he is prepared, but he isn’t. His first workout with Junior turns out to be his last. “After that,” Niu said of that 1986 morning, “every time the bus would come and I’d see him over there, I made it a point to walk in the opposite direction. Bug would be out there like clockwork. He was one of the hardest-working people I’ve ever known.”
Junior lived in a three-bedroom bungalow where he and three brothers slept in a converted one-car garage that served as his gym as well as his bedroom. On most mornings he’d rise before the sun crept over the coast and exercise until his body was drenched in sweat and his muscles twitched from fatigue. He’d do push-ups and sit-ups on the cement floor, pull-ups on a tree branch in the backyard. He used the neighborhood streets as his personal track.
While running one afternoon, he passed the home of a cousin, who was seated on the front porch. Fifteen minutes later he passed the house again, moving in the opposite direction. The cousin didn’t think much of it; Junior was always running. But when the youngster passed the home a third time, the cousin shook his head and laughed. “Man, that kid’s crazy,” he said to a friend. “But he’s going to go somewhere.”
The words were prescient. Nearly a decade later, Bug’s journey took him to the Super Bowl, where he played on the grandest stage in professional sports. A decade after that, it took him to the White House, where President George W. Bush honored him as a “Volunteer of the Year” for his work with at-risk kids in San Diego County. And in 2015, it took him to Canton, Ohio, where he became the first player of Polynesian descent to be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
But to fully appreciate just how far he traveled, literally and figuratively, you must understand where his journey began.
Oceanside is the third-largest city in San Diego County, yet it often is overshadowed by smaller coastal municipalities to the south, like Carlsbad, Encinitas, La Jolla, and Coronado. Those communities are held up as symbols of affluence and privilege when people talk about the beauty of the region. Oceanside is known as the gritty military town on the southern border of Camp Pendleton, the 125,000-acre Marine Corps training facility that’s the largest on the West Coast. It’s the dirt-covered stone that has yet to be buffed and polished into a priceless gem, three and a half miles of coastline that’s as unpretentious as it is gorgeous.
The Seaus did not live close enough to the water to taste the salt in the air. They lived inland, where gangs and drugs and small, overcrowded bungalows were prevalent. Community members referred to it as East Side; while it could be intimidating to outsiders, many locals found comfort there because it was what they knew. Some 1,400 people of Samoan descent resided in the area in 2000, making it one of the largest concentrations of Polynesians in the United States, according to that year’s census.
Tiaina Seau and his wife, Luisa, grew up on American Samoa—Luisa in Pago Pago, Tiaina in the much smaller village of Nu’uuli—but they didn’t meet until both were in Hawaii, where Luisa was attending school and Tiaina was searching for work. They fell in love, married, and started a family, but thoughts of settling there dissipated quickly after son David was born with a hole in his lung.
The parents were told that David could receive specialized medical care in San Diego, where Tiaina had a sister, so the family packed its belongings and relocated. They spent two years in San Diego before moving 45 minutes north to Oceanside. The change in address stemmed from Tiaina’s desire to reduce his commute. He had found work at a rubber factory in San Clemente, and the 90-minute drive in one direction from San Diego was wearing on him. By moving to Oceanside, he could cut the commute in half.
The family settled on Zeiss Street, where children Savaii, Annette, Tiaina, and Antonio joined David and Mary. The baby of the bunch from 1969 to ’76 was Tiaina, otherwise known as Junior. Interestingly, he wasn’t a true junior. Both his father and his grandfather had the same given name, making him a Tiaina III, but everyone called him Junior to differentiate him from his dad. His mother tended to call him Pepe, which is Samoan for baby.
There’s a long-accepted story that the Seau family went back to American Samoa for several years after Junior was born, then returned to Oceanside. It also claims that Junior didn’t learn English until he was seven. Neither is true. Junior’s first trip to American Samoa didn’t come until after his third year of high school. When his family occasionally asked him to set the record straight, he’d shrug and say: “Let ’em
run with it. Makes for a better story.”
Junior loved to prank people, and rewriting his family history spoke to that. While in college he told a reporter: “I was five years old and couldn’t speak English when we came here. But my dad wanted to raise us in America so we could have a chance to go to college.”
He was a handful even as a young child, unable to sit still for long stretches and always searching for the next adventure. Mary, the oldest of his two sisters, often had to babysit him while their parents were at work. When his mischievousness would wear her down, she’d allow him to go outside alone, which could be problematic because he tended to stray as far as his feet and his curiosity could take him. No one was overly worried, though, because the 1970s were a more innocent time. Most everyone on the block knew each other, and there was a sense of shared responsibility when it came to watching over the children.
But Junior wasn’t the type who needed to be protected from others—he needed to be protected from himself. He’d get into anything and everything. Fear was not in his vocabulary. Once, he and some friends found a mattress in the backyard of an empty house and moved it to the front yard, where they took turns jumping off the roof onto the covered coils. When he did get caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, he had a knack for talking his way out of trouble, something that continued well into adulthood. Oftentimes Mary would find herself in the middle of things.
“When we were young, the boys would build their own go-cart,” she said. “They would take the wheels off the grocery carts that people would push into the canyon and use the lumber from the backyard that Dad had purchased to add a kitchen on the back of the house. They knew Dad would be mad when he got home, so they’d ask me to say I was the one who did it. I wouldn’t get in trouble because I was a girl, so everything that the boys did they blamed it on me.”